Return to Malfoy Manor
by evadnekapaneos
Summary: Hermione takes it upon herself to check the legacy of Lucius Malfoy, bringing her in uncomfortable and surprisingly comfortable situations. Canon-compliant (with Weasley-appendix).
1. Return to Malfoy Manor

_Disclaimer: I donʼt own Harry Potter._

 _In particular, there are references here to HBP, DH, Cursed Child and The Tales of Beedle the Bard. This story is supposed to happen around two years before the Epilogue. As almost nothing happens, Iʼm afraid itʼs a bit overlong and tedious (probably the Potion scene should be cut?)._

* * *

Hermione Apparated right in front of the magnificent wrought-iron gates. She peered through the bars, but the high yew hedges threw everything in such a gloomy light that she couldnʼt discern whereto the driveway led. The feeling of nausea was stronger than she had expected. And yet, she had told Kingsley that she didnʼt mind. She couldnʼt just return to the Ministry and ask for someone else to do the job. She was able to do this, and to do this with justice and free from prejudices.

Hermione squared her shoulders, took out her wand and rapped it against the gates. Immediately, the iron started to move, quickly reforming its patterns into a ghastly face.

ʻState your purpose,ʼ it said in a metallic voice.

ʻHermione Granger, member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic. I am expected.ʼ

The gates swung open as soon as she had stopped speaking. Hermione drew a deep breath and marched past the gates along the drive.

With every muffled step she made, her panic grew stronger. She looked up from the shaded ground and above her was a clear blue sky. She stared at it, feeling comforted by its serenity. She lowered her head and the depression and horror immediately returned worse than before. She still couldnʼt see where the drive was leading to, but she remembered, remembered so well that it made her wish she wouldnʼt. Her legs felt leaden. She glanced back to the gates, but the darkness of the hedges had already swallowed them.

ʻYou can do this,ʼ she whispered sharply to herself. Hoping very much that nobody was observing her, she threw her head back, concentrating on the peaceful sky. Grateful for the even gravel, she staggered on, unsure whether she wanted the path to end or to simply continue forever.

The surroundings were indifferent to her feelings and soon Hermione felt the hedges receding and she dared to look down again. She was before a stately manor, made of white stone and in perfect condition. It oddly reminded her of the houses from the period films her mother loved so much, but instead of lightening her mood she had the impression that the impossibly high hedges behind threatened to crush her even after she had left them behind. With one desperate glance to the sky, Hermione approached the broad front door.

As if the building had waited for her, the door opened and in the doorway stood a man, dressed all in black.

Hermione immediately forced her face into an official, but polite expression and walked towards him.

ʻGood afternoon, Mr Malfoy. Iʼm glad you have found time to meet me.ʼ

She had the impression that Malfoy hesitated a second, but then he shook the hand she offered.

ʻGood afternoon, please enter,ʼ he said tonelessly and stepped back to allow her in.

Hermione swallowed back the bile in her mouth and walked through the doors into the hallway. It was large and decorated in a style that clearly bespoke wealth. Yet, she had to admit that the interior was tasteful though the pale portraits on the wall didnʼt look as if they felt like welcoming her. She didnʼt remember much from the one time she had been here before, but then - it had been dark and she had truly been preoccupied.

She looked back to Malfoy who wore an oddly blank expression and continued to gaze to the outside. Hermione just wondered what he was thinking, but told herself that probably she was better off not knowing. She didnʼt want to be told that he considered her filth on his costly carpet.

Malfoy shuddered and turned to Hermione. ʻI suggest we go straight to my fatherʼs - my study. There, I have a list of the objects in question.ʼ

He motioned to a door on their right, still looking passive. Hermione had not seen him from close up for many years and she wondered whether he had been unwell lately or whether it was the loss of his father that made him look a bit sickly.

ʻCertainly,ʼ she said quickly and turned towards the door, relieved to be invited into a room she knew she did not know.

They had made but a few steps, when a small voice sounded behind them.

ʻGood afternoon. How lovely to see you.ʼ

Malfoy whipped around with such an expression of shock that Hermione instinctively reached for her wand. But when she looked up, there was only a small woman descending the broad staircase on the left site of the room.

ʻAstoria...ʼ

Malfoy had hastened from Hermioneʼs side before she had even noticed and now offered an arm to his wife. As they slowly approached, Hermione clearly saw that the woman needed the support, she seemed to make a considerable effort to keep the smile on her face. Her hair was only partly worked into a bun, the other half of hair looking as if she had just tumbled out of bed. She nearly drowned in the white silk dressing gown she was wearing and she was so impossibly thin that her face seemed to consist mainly of eyes. Her skin appeared almost translucent so that Hermione half-expected to see the bones shine through. But the strangest aspect about her was the fact that she was beaming as if there could be no higher pleasure than seeing Hermione in her hall.

ʻItʼs a pleasure having you here, Iʼm Astoria,ʼ said the woman as soon as she was close enough to offer Hermione her hand.

ʻHermione,ʼ said Hermione, trying to hide her surprise with a smile, taking Astoriaʼs hand, but not daring to press it as it looked horribly breakable. She had never consciously seen Astoria, only guessed from her accompanying Malfoy that she was his wife. But even with him, she couldnʼt remember the last time she had seen her.

ʻMay we offer you a cup of tea,ʼ continued the woman, still smiling widely as she gestured to the largest door just opposite the entrance.

ʻEm...ʼ Hermione hesitated, remembering exactly what room lay behind the door.

ʻI donʼt think Mrs Granger wants to go...ʼ said Malfoy and Hermione threw him a quick glance, taken aback that he seemed to understand her reaction.

ʻWe canʼt host Hermione in a broom cupboard can we?ʼ said Astoria with a little laugh that was almost immediately followed by an involuntary cringe. She turned and walked towards the door, Malfoy reluctantly supporting her. Hermione took a deep breath, then followed, fighting back the increasing dread.

Before the door, that Malfoy hastily pulled open, Astoria stopped and turned smiling to Hermione, inviting her in.

Hermione tried to smile back but failed as she stepped into the magnificent drawing room.

She fixed her eyes on the floor, not able to stop her breathing from accelerating. She didnʼt want to see the portraits in the room, the marble mantlepiece with the mirror over it and least of all, she didnʼt want to see the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

Malfoy and his wife slowly progressed towards a couple of armchairs grouped around the fireplace. Hermione followed their feet, but kept her eyes strictly on the ground, not daring to look up. She could make out how Malfoy ushered his wife into the armchair nearest to the fire that was blazing despite the warm weather. Hermione paused.

ʻPlease, sit down,ʼ Astoria said.

Hermione made an effort and looked up, hurrying to the chair Astoria indicated. Trying to ignore the waves of panic that swept through her she smiled at her host. Astoria looked even paler than in the hall, her face haggard in the light of the dancing fire. As Hermione looked, she slumped back and pressed a hand on her chest, closing her eyes. Malfoy eyed her anxiously and Hermione was torn between the feeling that it was indecent to watch Astoria in such a state and the fear of looking anywhere else in the room.

Nervously she looked past Malfoyʼs armchair. But her gaze met with the portrait of Lucius Malfoy and his lip curled in disgust. Hermione quickly looked the other way to the fire.

It was only then that she noticed someone else in the room. Huddled close to Astoria, stroking her hand with both of his, stood a little boy. Hermione wondered that she hadnʼt noticed him before and could only conjecture that he had kept so close to his mother that she had overlooked him. The boy was staring at her.

Intrigued, she looked at the child that had the wizarding community buzzing for the past years. He looked like a perfect little copy of the Draco Malfoy she remembered from her first years at school, though his face was slightly less pointed and his grey eyes were bigger. As Hermione looked at him, they seemed to widen and she wondered at his expression. At last, she decided that he looked frightened. It puzzled and worried her what the boy must have heard about her to make him fearful.

Probably it was not fear, but disdain, probably it was the same reason Malfoy hesitated to shake her hand, the same reason why Lucius Malfoy curled his lips. What if the boy was voicing all the old insults in his mind? What would she do if he suddenly shouted ʻMudblood!ʼ at her? Yet, she couldnʼt stand being looked at as if she was some terrifying beast. Making up her mind, she smiled at the boy.

He flinched and his eyes became even wider. Then he smiled back tentatively. Reassured, Hermione turned her full attention to the boy while Astoria still lay motionlessly in the armchair.

ʻYouʼre Scorpius, right?ʼ she asked.

The boy looked hastily up at his mother, then back to Hermione. Finally he nodded.

ʻHow old are you if I may ask?ʼ Hermione was quite certain that he was about Roseʼs age, but it was the first thing she could think about saying.

ʻN... nine,ʼ whispered Scorpius, shrinking closer to his mother.

ʻNine?ʼ said Hermione, hoping that she sounded encouraging. ʻHow funny. My daughterʼs nine too.ʼ

ʻI know.ʼ

Hermione froze. ʻHow do you know?ʼ she asked, wondering why Malfoy talked to his son about her children.

ʻI once read it in the Daily Prophet,ʼ whispered the child, looking thoroughly scared at her reaction.

ʻIn the newspaper?ʼ asked Hermione, her confusion changing to amusement. ʻYou already read the paper?ʼ

The boy nodded.

ʻYouʼre quite ahead of your age, the only thing Rose cares about in the paper is the column with the Quidditch results. Do you like reading in general?ʼ

Scorpius nodded again.

Just then Astoria murmured something and Malfoy called out, ʻLeavy!ʼ

With a _crack_ a small house-elf with large brown eyes and a nose resembling a pig snout appeared, dressed in a spotlessly white towel. ʻTea,ʼ said Malfoy in an absent-minded voice, his eyes remaining on his wife, and the elf Disapparated immediately again.

Hermione stared a moment at the spot where the house-elf had been, but then she turned to Scorpius again, smiling encouragingly, but the boy didnʼt say anything. ʻWhat do you most like to read?ʼ she finally asked.

Scorpius looked to his mother again, before he turned to Hermione. ʻ _Hogwarts: A History_ ,ʼ he muttered.

Hermione stared. ʻIʼve read that too,ʼ she said when she had recovered enough. ʻTwo years and you will be going too. So, youʼre looking forward to going to school?ʼ

ʻOh yes,ʼ said the boy, and for the first time he smiled.

With another _crack_ the house-elf appeared again, heaving a huge, ornate platter with four cups, a teapot and a plate full with biscuits, eclairs and scones on the table.

ʻYouʼll be quite ahead of everyone when you already read such clever books,ʼ Hermione said to the boy, simultaneously smiling at the house-elf as she was handed a cup of tea by her.

ʻHeʼs such a clever, little darling,ʼ whispered Astoria, apparently a bit recovered, a cup of tea hovering next to her head. She freed her hand from her sonʼs and stroke his hair. Contrary to the expectation Hermione had from her daughter, the boy didnʼt shy away, but leaned closer to his mother. ʻHe always reads. _A History of Magic_ , _Modern Magical History_ , _The Wizarding Wars_ , _The Battle of Hogwarts_ , _Fantastic Beast and Where to Find Them_ , _A Beginnersʼ Guide to Transfiguration_ , _Ancient Runes Made Easy_... He spends whole days up in the library.ʼ

ʻThatʼs really impressive. I read most of these too, but several years later,ʼ said Hermione to the back of Scorpiusʼ head. He had pressed his face against the side support of the armchair while his mother continued to caress him. Hermione wavered, then, suddenly eager to test the boyʼs reaction, she added, ʻIʼm Muggle-born, you know.ʼ

ʻI know,ʼ said Scorpius, peering up shyly. ʻIʼve read all about you.ʼ He turned pink and hid his face quickly again. But Hermione had seen enough to realise that what she had thought was fright was admiration. Completely taken aback, she stared at the boy.

ʻHe often reads to me,ʼ said Astoria, smiling.

ʻ _A Beginnersʼ Guide to Transfiguration_?ʼ said Hermione, trying to gloss over her bafflement with a smile too. ʻThatʼs not very interesting for you.ʼ

Astoria laughed, but quickly stopped again, her hand fluttering up to her chest.

ʻMostly fairy tales,ʼ whispered Scorpius, peeping up again.

ʻYou have a favourite?ʼ

ʻ"The Fountain of Fair Fortune",ʼ said the boy without a momentʼs hesitation.

ʻI like that one too,ʼ said Hermione. ʻI even translated it once.ʼ

ʻThatʼs the one we read from,ʼ said Astoria weakly, the effort she made to smile almost painful to watch.

ʻAnd now we can read it even more often,ʼ said Scorpius, sounding thoroughly happy.

Hermione stared at him, confused by the statement.

ʻHis grandfather didnʼt approve of the tale,ʼ said Malfoy, making Hermione start as she had almost forgotten his presence. Scorpius had turned bright pink.

ʻWhat do you like most about the story?ʼ said Hermione quickly, feeling the heat rise in her own face.

ʻThe-ʼ Scorpius swallowed. ʻThe herbs... because of - Asha...ʼ

Hermione involuntarily squinted at the boyʼs mother, feeling her face get warm.

ʻI hope your family is well,ʼ said Malfoy all of a sudden.

Hermione stared at him for several seconds, her mind trying to digest the fact that Draco Malfoy had asked after her family. Even when she considered that he had primarily wanted to change an uncomfortable topic, she was still taken aback at the question and, most of all, at the polite tone. ʻQuite well, thank you,ʼ she finally said. ʻYour mother is well too, I hope?ʼ

ʻSheʼs deeply afflicted, but otherwise she is well, thanks.ʼ

They lapsed into silence again. Hermione shivered, the room threatening to bring up memories she had strived to erase.

ʻWhat did you say was your daughterʼs name? Rose, right?ʼ asked Astoria, her voice very weak.

ʻYes, exactly. And her little brother is Hugo.ʼ

ʻHow charming. I wish Scorpius had a sibling,ʼ said Astoria, the words becoming increasingly blurred and her head dropping to the side.

ʻIt might be better if you lied down,ʼ said Hermione, too much distressed by the womanʼs increasing weakness as to ignore it any longer. For a second, she thought she could see something like gratefulness on Malfoyʼs face before he turned and offered an arm to his wife.

ʻI wouldnʼt want to be rude,ʼ said the little woman in an embarrassed tone.

ʻYouʼre not being rude,ʼ said Hermione. ʻYou look as if you really needed rest.ʼ

Before Astoria could even try to get to her feet, Malfoy had bent down and lifted her up so that she dangled in his arms.

ʻItʼs been such a pleasure meeting you,ʼ she whispered, her eyes already closed.

ʻYes... er, indeed... I hope, weʼll meet again,ʼ stammered Hermione, shakily putting down her cup and getting to her feet.

ʻIʼll be with you in a moment,ʼ murmured Malfoy, half dragging, half carrying his wife out of the room. Scorpius followed, keeping close to his parents. Just at the door he turned and waved timidly. Surprised but delighted, Hermione smiled back just before the door closed on the boy.

It was the sound of the door falling in the lock that reminded Hermione sharply of where she was. She felt her knees buckle and had to grip the back of her armchair. Thus looking down, she noticed that the house-elf was still there, letting Astoriaʼs and Scorpiusʼ unused cups sail towards her.

The house-elf marked Hermioneʼs observation. ʻCan Leavy do anything for the madam?ʼ she squeaked.

ʻNo thank you,ʼ said Hermione. ʻHow are you?ʼ

ʻLeavy is very sad seeing dear, little mistress in such a state.ʼ

ʻThat must be hard for you,ʼ said Hermione.

ʻO madam, Leavy was with little mistress so many nights in St Mungoʼs when she was a child and it was all... Leavy would do anything for dear little mistress, but thereʼs nothing to be done.ʼ

ʻIʼm sorry,ʼ said Hermione, then, deciding to be thorough as she had the occasion of talking to the elf, she added, ʻbut otherwise you cannot complain about your situation?ʼ

The elfʼs tennis ball sized eyes widened. ʻHow could Leavy complain? I has the kindest mistress there is. And young master is a delightful child, such a consolation for poor mistress. And master is very good too.ʼ The elf sighed, then added, ʻIs madam sure she wonʼt need Leavy?ʼ

ʻNo, thank you.ʼ

The elf took the two cups that had floated before her and Disapparated.

The second the elf was gone, the threat of the room returned and seemed to crush Hermione again. Her eyes were fixed on the spot on the floor where a moment ago the house-elf had been while her hands trembled more and more. She didnʼt dare to move, hardly to breathe, knowing that the memories could storm over her any moment.

Illuminated by the flickering flames of the chimney, light and shadow danced on the floor and the longer Hermione watched the colder she felt despite the heat. The air was heavy and she yearned to open a window, but she couldnʼt remember whether there was any in the room. Cautiously she looked up, immediately wishing she hadnʼt.

It was as if her eyes were drawn upwards by an invisible force and slowly her gaze wandered over the handsome marble piece, over the large mirror in which she saw her own terrified expression and up to the ceiling. She turned on the spot until her eyes were directly fixed on the crystal chandelier. Like in trance, her hand clutching the back of the armchair, she stepped towards the middle of the room, only letting go of the armchair in the last moment. She walked forward until she stood just below the chandelier. It looked perfect, magnificent even, showing no sign that it had ever been smashed, smashed right over her body. So many years had passed since she had lain here on the floor, her eyes on the sparkling chandelier while suffering the most horrible pain.

Hermione stood on the very same spot, transfixed, motionless, frozen between the desire to run and hide or to smash the whole room.

Someone cleared his throat.

Hermione started, her eyes darting to the source of the voice. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway again. Hermione hastily tried to take a more natural position, her heart racing.

ʻWould you like to change into the study?ʼ Malfoy called over, his voice emotionless.

ʻOf...ʼ Hermione coughed, trying to find her voice. ʻOf course.ʼ

She walked towards Malfoy, having the uncomfortable feeling of being on a ship. Malfoy turned when she had almost reached him and she could put her hand on the doorway and inhale deeply, trying to regain her composure, before she followed him across the hall. He headed for the door that he had formerly indicated and kept it open for her. She quickly stepped through, hoping that she didnʼt appear anxious, but calm and professional.

She had entered a corridor as sumptuously decorated as the hall, with a thick carpet on the floor. On the walls were artfully sketched landscapes and houses, reminding Hermione again strongly of her motherʼs fondness for the early nineteenth century. Along the walls stood small stands with vases or glass cases on it.

Malfoy started to walk down the corridor and Hermione followed, but soon she staggered to a halt. She stared at one of the glass cases in which an ornate opal necklace was exposed.

After several steps Malfoy, noticing that she was not following him, turned.

ʻThe Ministry knows that I have that,ʼ he said quietly.

ʻOf... of course.ʼ Hermione felt her cheeks glow. ʻI was just... you walk past that... I mean itʼs... never mind.ʼ Hermione quickly looked away and stared at a bucolic scene with several sheep strolling around.

ʻIt cost one and a half thousand Galleons after all,ʼ Malfoy said, sounding slightly grumpy.

ʻOf course, I was just not expecting anything familiar,ʼ said Hermione hastily, wishing to change the topic, but nothing occurring to her.

ʻI keep it her, so that I see it and-ʼ

He abruptly broke off and hastened further down the corridor to a door. Hermione, half glad that he had gone on, half suspicious at his half-sentence, trotted after him and entered the room first.

The study was significantly smaller than the drawing room but high, with the light flooding in through one tall window. It fell on a heavy desk occupying most of the space, a massive cupboard in a corner remaining in the shadows. Over the desk hang a large painting with an unfamiliar, pale woman, who slept peacefully on a throne-like armchair.

Hermione walked up to the desk and turned expectantly to Malfoy, confident that her face was completely controlled again. He had paused at the door and was looking to the floor as if it was his turn to be embarrassed. Curious, Hermione watched him.

ʻAstoria doesnʼt know,ʼ he suddenly said. ʻAbout - the drawing room. I never told her. I didnʼt tell her much, to be honest. So please donʼt be offended with her-ʼ

ʻIʼm not offended,ʼ cut Hermione in, taken aback by this turn. ʻNobody could be offended by Astoria.ʼ

Malfoy looked up, a warm smile spreading over his face. He quickly looked away again and walked around the desk. Hermione kept watching him in surprise that was bordering to shock. She had never thought Malfoy capable of such an affectionate expression, even less when she was nearby.

ʻPlease, sit down,ʼ he added and Hermione sank into the large chair before the desk.

ʻThis is the list on which I have noted down the objects in questions.ʼ Malfoy leant forwards and handed a piece of parchment to Hermione which she automatically took. ʻTheyʼre kept down in the cellar. Probably I should bring them up?ʼ

Hermioneʼs eyes scanned the list with its gruesome assembly of magical daggers, cursed jewellery and body parts abused for experimental hexes. ʻThat would be fine, thank you,ʼ she said, looking up again.

Malfoy nodded and Hermione watched him as he quickly left the study. Her survey had already told her that every single object on the list fell under the Decree for Justifiable Confiscation. But Lucius Malfoy had left no will, so nobody in the Ministry had payed his death any attention until Draco Malfoyʼs plea for registration of his fatherʼs Dark Magical artefacts had found its way on her desk.

Rolling up the parchment and undecided about how she should proceed, she looked around. The woman in the portrait was still peacefully asleep. Some photographs on the desk caught Hermioneʼs attention. Glancing back at the door, she turned the one furthest on her right around.

It showed a young, smiling couple at their wedding. Hermione had no difficulty in recognising Malfoyʼs parents, though she had never seen them so innocently happy.

Hermione put the photograph back into place. Without much thinking, she pulled the next photograph towards her. She was relieved to see that it only showed a little, pale boy of about a year, crawling in nappies on a costly carpet. Hermione watched the boyʼs slow progress around the picture with a smile. Putting it back in place but keeping her hand on it, she turned the last photograph towards her.

She frowned. She took the photograph she had just put back again in her hand. She looked from one photograph to the other. They seemed absolutely identical, both showing the pale boy on the carpet, one crawling zealously around, the other sleeping soundly.

The door closed behind her. Hermione started, hastily putting the photographs back, accidentally dropping the parchment she had kept on her lap on the floor. Bending down for the parchment and looking behind, she saw Malfoy waving several large trunks on the floor as he stepped closer and looked over her shoulder. Feeling herself blushing, Hermione unrolled the piece of parchment again.

ʻI think thatʼs me,ʼ Draco said thoughtfully when the silence started to stretch uncomfortably and he pointed at the picture with the crawling baby.

ʻTheyʼre you?ʼ said Hermione, feeling her face glowing again. ʻIʼm sorry, I shouldnʼt have-ʼ

ʻThe otherʼs Scorpius,ʼ said Malfoy, his voice suddenly warmer. ʻIt was Motherʼs idea to photograph him like me.ʼ

ʻReally?ʼ said Hermione, distracted, staring at the pictures again, trying to discover some difference.

Malfoy coughed and stepped away again to the cupboard in the shadow. He turned the key and opened it, but it revealed nothing but writing material. Confused, Hermione watched him close the door and turn the key again. He seemed to meet with some resistance for it took some time and rattling until the lock clicked and when the cupboard opened it was full of bottles and flasks, containing liquids in every colour. Hermione put the photographs back in place and stepped next to Malfoy. She had little difficulty in identifying the liquids nearest to her, the mud-like Polyjuice Potion, the colourless Veritaserum and Draught of Living Death, the pure white Prodigious Pains Poison and countless more toxics.

ʻQuite a collection,ʼ Hermione murmured. Louder she added, ʻWhat did he keep them for?ʼ

ʻI think he just liked having them,ʼ said Malfoy, staring into the cupboard and avoiding Hermioneʼs eyes. ʻThe feeling to have power, to matter...ʼ

Hermione, wishing nothing less but psychological insight in Lucius Malfoyʼs life, decided to proceed professionally. ʻIʼll sort them,ʼ she said and waved the potions out of the cupboard onto the desk. She followed after them and soon the two groups of allowed and forbidden potions grew as she checked the single flasks.

ʻDo you know what that is?ʼ she asked when only three containers remained of which she couldnʼt tell what was in them. She held a bulbous bottle into the light that was filled with a half-congealed black substance that emitted ugly belching sounds when she shook it.

ʻIʼve no idea,ʼ said Malfoy, joining her at the table to look at the bottle. ʻLooks like itʼs perished.ʼ

ʻYou think it once looked different?ʼ

Malfoy just shrugged. Hermione hesitated a moment, then she removed the cork and lowered her wand into the substance. The black mass reacted instantaneously and started to bubble upwards. Hermione hastily put her wand away and hexed the cork back on the bottle. Yet, a bit of the black stuff remained on the wand and as Hermione watched it, it formed into a little compact body like a giant amoeba and started to move down her wand, on its way leaving a deep scratch in the wood. Hermione stared at the little moving dot, not daring to drop her wand, but ever more fearing the moment when the substance would touch her skin.

ʻ _Evanesco_!ʼ

The dot quivered a little when the Vanishing spell hit it, but then it disappeared. Hermione sighed and lowered her wand, leaning against the desk for a moment.

ʻThank you.ʼ

ʻYouʼre welcome,ʼ said Draco, putting his wand back in his robes.

Hermione shook her head and placed the bottle decidedly to the other forbidden substances.

ʻIt must be some highly aggressive, half-animated acid,ʼ she concluded as she ascertained that her wand wouldnʼt have any lasting damage. ʻIʼve never heard of it, the Potions Service in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes will have to check this. Do you know whatʼs in the other two?ʼ

Malfoy stared at the two flasks for some time. At last, he pointed at the smaller, square flacon filled with a transparent liquid with an unhealthy greenish tinge. ʻI think thatʼs Drink of Dominance. Father showed it once to me and it looked like that.ʼ

ʻThe liquid Imperious curse?ʼ said Hermione. ʻIʼve read about it, but itʼs so tricky to make and banned in every wizarding community. I thought the recipe must be lost.ʼ

ʻItʼs just what Father told me,ʼ mumbled Malfoy. ʻIʼve no idea where he got it from.ʼ

Hermione put the flacon next to the black acid and turned her attention to the last bottle, its content a dark blue liquid.

ʻI canʼt detect what that is, it doesnʼt react to any of the usual checking spells.ʼ

ʻNo idea, looks like ink...ʼ

Hermione lowered her half risen wand. ʻLike ink?ʼ She held the bottle into the light again. ʻYouʼve got a quill?ʼ

Malfoy stared at her a second, then bent over the table to pick up a quill and a spare bit of parchment. Hermione unscrewed the lid and dipped the quill into the bottle. She let a drop fall on the parchment. Hardly able to hide her grin she looked up again. ʻIt still looks like ink.ʼ

ʻWhat did he keep ink for in there?ʼ muttered Malfoy while Hermione additionally checked the content of the bottle with the Ink Quality Spell to make completely sure.

ʻYou can keep these,ʼ said Hermione, motioning to the bottles to which she had just placed the ink. ʻTheyʼre not illegal although the use of Veritaserum, Polyjuice Potion and the like is restricted by the Ministry. I take that you know the respective laws?ʼ

Malfoy nodded.

ʻThe other poisons Iʼll have to confiscate. Do you have any objections?ʼ

Malfoy shook his head. Hermione conjured a crate and let the poisons float into it.

ʻThen there is your list. What would you like us to do? Should the Ministry confiscate these items too?ʼ

Malfoy looked down, clenching and unclenching his hands. Hermione eyed him curiously, having a hard time keeping her fingers from knocking nervously on the desk until Malfoy finally looked up.

ʻIʼd like to keep them.ʼ

ʻWell,ʼ said Hermione, not exactly surprised, but despite herself slightly disappointed, ʻtheoretically, the possession of all of them is forbidden as you know. But you have already a rather large collection of Dark Magical artefacts and are officially registered, so there is a fair chance you will be allowed to do so. I would suggest that you record them like a common purchase. I can take the list with me and hand it in for you if you like.ʼ

ʻI donʼt want to keep them because...ʼ started Malfoy, suddenly staring at Hermione with intensity, causing her to take a step backwards. ʻI mean, they were my fatherʼs... and I understand that you have no sympathies for him, but... I donʼt think he collected them for... and some of them are really interesting from a theoretical point of view and as a collector... I mean, I donʼt want to...ʼ

ʻOf course,ʼ interrupted Hermione, slightly alarmed by the incoherent outburst. ʻI donʼt blame you for anything, though I canʼt guarantee that you can keep everything. For example that fanged shrunken head, Iʼm not sure-ʼ

ʻI donʼt need to keep everything,ʼ Malfoy said hastily.

ʻI will have to take everything with me for now, though,ʼ said Hermione. ʻThen there will be the usual checks before you get it back. You know the people in charge, donʼt you?ʼ

Malfoy nodded again.

ʻYou have everything on the list in the trunks? Youʼre sure you havenʼt forgotten anything?ʼ

Malfoy looked to the floor again. There was a short pause, then he said, ʻYes, thatʼs everything.ʼ

Hermione hesitated, suspicion rising. She could order a search of the house, but the idea strongly displeased her. ʻWell,ʼ she finally said. ʻI will be going then.ʼ

Malfoy looked up, seeming to struggle for words. ʻMrs Granger, the Daily Prophet...ʼ he said, his voice thick.

ʻWhatʼs with the Daily Prophet?ʼ

ʻYouʼve heard Scorpius,ʼ Malfoy went on, sounding more and more pleading. ʻHe understands what they write and... if you could stop them-ʼ

ʻOh,ʼ said Hermione, her cheeks warming again as she understood. ʻIʼm sorry. Iʼm really, really sorry. For the rubbish they write and... but you know that the Ministry has a very strict policy not to interfere with the press. Remember how the situation was before Shacklebolt, we canʼt put pressure on the newspaper.ʼ

ʻDo you have any idea-ʼ

ʻIʼm sorry,ʼ said Hermione, noticing with shock how pleading she suddenly sounded. ʻI canʼt. The Ministry canʼt.ʼ

ʻPotterʼs wife edits the Prophet.ʼ

ʻSheʼs responsible for sports. Iʼm sure Ginny thinks this as ridiculous as I do, but itʼs not in her power to stop it. All I can do is talk to Ginny. But I doubt she will be able to do much.ʼ

ʻMrs Granger-ʼ

ʻHermione.ʼ

Malfoy stared at her as if he thought he had misheard her. The anger drained from him and he turned away from her, his head bent. Feeling very uncomfortable, Hermione considered waving the confiscated material together to show that she was leaving when he turned to her again and offered her his hand. ʻDraco,ʼ he mumbled.

She pressed his hand. ʻIʼm sorry.ʼ

ʻWould you like to stay for dinner?ʼ

Hermioneʼs mouth fell open. ʻNo thank you very much,ʼ she said, her voice quivering. ʻBut I have to go back to the Ministry. Thereʼs a lot of work presently. But thanks, probably some other time.ʼ

ʻYes,ʼ muttered Draco. ʻIʼll lead you to the door.ʼ

He stood on the spot for a moment, then he turned and went to open the door for her. Hermione waved the crate and the trunks into the air and let them float before her. Walking beside Draco, they passed through the corridor again and out into the hall. At the front door Draco stopped.

ʻGood bye Mrs - Hermione.ʼ

ʻGood bye Draco. Greet Astoria from me, it was lovely to meet her.ʼ

Draco almost smiled as Hermione shook his hand once more and passed out into the grounds. The doors closed behind her and she faced the long drive with the high hedges again. Hermione looked up into the still blue sky. She inhaled the grassy smell of her surrounding and smiled to herself before she stepped forwards. She hadnʼt progressed far when a distant call made her turn. Confused, her eyes travelled over the magnificent facade until they caught a little blond head leaning out from one of the upper windows and waving frantically at her.

Hermione had to grin as she waved back, slowly going forwards until the hedges hid her from view. She let her hand sink, but the smile remained on her face as she strode down to the gates she had an hour ago entered with so much apprehension.


	2. Appendix: An Evening at the Burrow

ʻRose! Dinnerʼs ready,ʼ shouted Hermione upstairs.

Far above, something thudded to the floor and seconds later a door could be heard forcefully thrown open up on the fifth floor.

Hermione sighed as something extremely orange dashed into view and sprinted to the kitchen table.

ʻThereʼs no need to wear Quidditch robes in the house,ʼ Hermione pointed out.

ʻI am a fan,ʼ said Rose wisely as she sat down. ʻAnd true fans never part with their team. So I keep my fingers crossed.ʼ

ʻMy education,ʼ said Ron proudly. ʻSprouts, Rosie?ʼ

While Ron loaded Roseʼs plate, Hermione sat down next to Hugo who hardly managed to sit upright in his chair. But as Hermione always dreaded that a Quidditch match would last several days she was glad that the Arrows had managed to catch the Snitch after about two hours, so Hugo had only felt the exhaustion when he was safely home again.

ʻHow did it go?ʼ asked Mr Weasley before Ron could start an attack on his own plate.

ʻThree-hundred and thirty to forty,ʼ answered Rose instead, her mouth full of sprouts. ʻBut next time weʼll win.ʼ

ʻWeʼve got a new Beater, that takes its time until they work seamlessly as a team,ʼ said Ron.

ʻThat Portuguese from Braga?ʼ asked Mr Weasley.

ʻHeʼs not from Braga,ʼ said Ron sadly. ʻBut yes, that one.ʼ

ʻHeʼll develop well,ʼ Rose added cheerfully.

Hermione caught Mrs Weasleyʼs eyes and winked, both more than used to the endless Quidditch talks.

ʻNo problems at the Ministry?ʼ Mrs Weasley asked.

ʻThere are always problems,ʼ said Hermione. ʻBut no big problems, no. We had the fiftieth house-elf at the House-elf Help Desk, but he only wanted to prevent a raise of his salary.ʼ

ʻFrom any known family?ʼ asked Mr Weasley over the table.

ʻPritchard. I donʼt know them. Do you?ʼ

Mr Weasley shook his head, starting with his roast potatoes.

ʻWe donʼt need a house-elf,ʼ said Rose proudly, ʻbecause weʼve got Grandma.ʼ

ʻRose!ʼ said Hermione, but Mrs Weasley laughed.

ʻMay I have a salary increase?ʼ

ʻThe Malfoyʼs house-elf seemed also content with her position,ʼ added Hermione. ʻThe house-elf situation has witnessed a massive increase in the last few years. And _who_ initiated S.P.E.W.?ʼ

Ron filled pumpkin juice in Roseʼs glass with ostentatious ceremony.

ʻThe Ministryʼs been at the Malfoyʼs today?ʼ asked Mr Weasley. ʻWas it as bad as suspected?ʼ

ʻYou mean the objects Lucius Malfoy left?ʼ clarified Hermione. ʻYes, there was quite some freaky stuff, even a half-living potion I couldnʼt identify. I confiscated it all temporarily, but I suppose we can hand back the largest part.ʼ

ʻWhy?ʼ asked Ron as aggressively as he could with a mouth full of sprouts. He swallowed hastily under the quelling looks of his mother and wife. ʻWhy should Malfoy get anything back?ʼ

ʻItʼs his inheritance. Heʼs-ʼ

ʻYeah, he inherited a lot from Lucius Malfoy,ʼ said Ron. ʻHermione, when you said - about the house-elf - at the Malfoyʼs - youʼre not going to tell me that you went there?ʼ

ʻYes, I went there.ʼ

ʻBut...ʼ stammered Ron with eyes full of horror. ʻHermione... at the Malfoyʼs... wasnʼt it...ʼ

ʻYes, I felt like that at first,ʼ said Hermione, smiling at her husband. ʻBut in the end I was glad I went there.ʼ

ʻI hate them,ʼ said Rose firmly.

ʻRose!ʼ said Hermione.

ʻI know all about them, Mum,ʼ said Rose with dignity. ʻI will never forgive someone who has insulted you. I hate them from the bottom of my heart in your honour.ʼ

ʻNow, Rose, thatʼs dear of you, but-ʼ

Hugoʼs increasingly lopsided position made him drop from the chair just then.

Hermione bent down to take him up though he didnʼt seem to mind continuing his slumber on the kitchen floor.

ʻYouʼd better go to bed, donʼt you?ʼ she muttered.

ʻLet me take him upstairs,ʼ said Mrs Weasley. ʻYou have just returned from work, you must be tired yourself.ʼ

ʻThank you,ʼ said Hermione, giving her son a kiss, before handing him over to his grandmother. Mrs Weasley turned and carried him upstairs, safely cradled in her arms.

Hermione sat down again and started on her roast potatoes, chewing and considering a sudden idea while Ron, Rose and Mr Weasley resumed their discussion about the chances of the Chudley Cannons this season.

Just as Ron was complaining about Ginnyʼs neutrality when reporting Quidditch matches, Mrs Weasley came down the stairs again and retook her seat. Hermione finished her meal in silence, before she sought Ronʼs gaze.

ʻProbably we could invite them,ʼ Hermione suggested when she was sure of having caught Ronʼs attention.

ʻInvite whom?ʼ asked Ron blandly.

Hermione breathed deeply, preparing her answer. ʻThe Malfoys.ʼ

ʻWhat?ʼ said Ron, Rose and Mr Weasley in unison.

Hermione looked over to Mrs Weasley who frowned.

ʻHermione,ʼ she said tentatively, ʻremember what background they have. How could we receive them here?ʼ

ʻI do believe their backgroundʼs not as it was-ʼ started Hermione.

ʻNo, dear,ʼ interrupted Mrs Weasley. ʻYou got me wrong. I didnʼt mean any... ideological differences, but simply... think about the monetary gulf between us. They are used to a luxury we cannot compete with and, to be sincere, I donʼt want to compete with.ʼ

Hermione nodded, admitting to herself that this aspect would never have crossed her mind. It did seem trivial to her, but she had learnt to trust Mrs Weasleyʼs judgement in social matters.

ʻNever mind their wealth,ʼ said Ron. ʻYou cannot suggest to let Malfoy, _Malfoy_ , enter our house. Think what heʼs done to you.ʼ

ʻDadʼs right,ʼ seconded Rose. ʻThere are some insults that are unforgivable.ʼ

ʻIs it not the insulted party who decides whatʼs unforgivable?ʼ Hermione asked her daughter, but Rose didnʼt show any concern. Hermione turned to Ron again. ʻMalfoy hasnʼt done anything to me for over fifteen years. How pettish would it be not to forgive after such a long time.ʼ

ʻThis is not about forgiveness,ʼ said Ron. ʻYou may forgive whomsoever you like. But to forgive is not to forget and it is most certainly not to turn into best friends.ʼ

ʻI wasnʼt talking about being best friends. I just thought it might be a nice gesture. Dracoʼs invited me to dinner today.ʼ

Ron stared at her for a moment before he could answer. ʻYou didnʼt accept though.ʼ

ʻHow could I!ʼ said Hermione. ʻI needed to go back to the Ministry. But Iʼm not talking about inviting the Malfoys to dinner. I didnʼt have the impression that Astoria would have strength enough. I-ʼ

ʻAstoria!ʼ exclaimed Ron. ʻDraco! Since when are you on such friendly terms!ʼ

ʻSince today,ʼ said Hermione calmly. ʻAstoria introduced herself as Astoria, so how silly would I be to call her Mrs Malfoy. And as I was saying, we could invite them for tea. In summer, in the outside, probably when we invite some neighbours. So it wouldnʼt seem formal or anything...ʼ

ʻHermione,ʼ said Ron with raised eyebrows. ʻYou want something not formal and expect Malfoy to fit in among our normal, good-humoured neighbours-ʼ

ʻAnd little Scorpius could play with Rose. And we-ʼ

ʻI would never do that!ʼ exclaimed Rose defiantly. ʻHow can you expect me to betray you so!ʼ

ʻNow Rose,ʼ said Hermione calmly, internally cursing Ronʼs zealous education, ʻI understand that you canʼt like the father because he insulted me many years ago. But thatʼs no reason to be prejudiced against the son-ʼ

ʻHow could the son be any different than the father?ʼ shouted Rose. ʻAm I not like you and Dad? So I make my friends among my parentsʼ friends for this is where I belong.ʼ

ʻRose-ʼ said Hermione soothingly, but her daughter broke into tears.

ʻI defend you,ʼ she sobbed. ʻBut you want me to fraternise with the enemy. Why do you want to alienate us?ʼ

She kicked her chair back and ran out of the kitchen, making a lot of noise on her way upstairs.

Hermione got half out of her chair, but sank back again.

ʻWhere does she get that temper from?ʼ she muttered.

ʻI plead not guilty,ʼ said Ron cheerfully, loading his plate anew.

ʻIʼll go up to her in a few minutes,ʼ sighed Hermione. ʻBut donʼt you think it would be polite to invite them?ʼ

Ron exchanged a critical glance with his father.

ʻTo be honest,ʼ said Mr Weasley, ʻI donʼt like the idea.ʼ

ʻI was primarily thinking of the boy,ʼ clarified Hermione. ʻHe seems to be very lonely and yet such a lovable child.ʼ

ʻYou heard Rose,ʼ said Ron. ʻSheʼd consider it as treachery towards you.ʼ

ʻYou seem to have instilled some strange principles in her,ʼ snapped Hermione.

ʻI didnʼt!ʼ said Ron defensively. ʻRose asks many questions. About how we fell in love - I told her how I once vomited slugs for you. And when she asks about the wizarding wars and the Muggle-borns... I just told her about our past and Rose is being consequent.ʼ

Hermione sighed. ʻIt might be not a bad starting point. Sheʼll learn soon enough that the world is more complex. Why is nothing ever simple?ʼ

ʻYou think too much,ʼ said Ron as soon as he had swallowed his roast potatoes. ʻJust enjoy the moment and donʼt try to save the world. Malfoy can bring up his children as he likes. And Rose is clever enough to recognize good qualities when she comes across them. So, if they _have_ to become friends, thereʼs still time enough at Hogwarts.ʼ

ʻIsnʼt Hannah Abbott in contact with them?ʼ asked Mrs Weasley. ʻProbably you could organize something at the Leaky Cauldron?ʼ

ʻThatʼs a thought,ʼ said Hermione slowly. ʻThe Malfoys have become almost phantoms, you hardly see them anymore.ʼ

ʻApart from the gossip in the Prophet,ʼ chuckled Ron.

ʻThatʼs not funny,ʼ said Hermione sharply. ʻImagine how the boy must suffer from it.ʼ

ʻHeʼs about Roseʼs age,ʼ said Mrs Weasley. ʻHe canʼt know much about it.ʼ

ʻO yes, he can,ʼ said Hermione. ʻHeʼs reading the paper and heʼs smart enough to understand what they write. He reads a lot-ʼ

ʻHang on,ʼ said Ron. ʻHe reads a lot? Hermione, have you ever considered the possibility... donʼt you think that... Malfoy might have constructed this to gain your sympathies?ʼ

Hermione stared at Ron. ʻI beg your pardon?ʼ

ʻHermione, you read a lot,ʼ said Ron. ʻMalfoy presents you with a son who reads a lot. Donʼt forget, he wants something from you, or rather from the Ministry you represent. Can you put it beyond him that he isnʼt manipulating you?ʼ

Hermione swallowed down an angry retort and leant back. Closing her eyes she recalled the details of her visit, the expected and the unexpected meetings. She tried to remember every gesture and judge the sincerity it contained. After a long while she shook her head. Her recollection and her instinct approved of her former judgement. No matter how she applied Ronʼs thesis, it sounded like a conspiracy theory.

ʻScorpius is no manipulator,ʼ she said firmly, getting on her feet. ʻI check on Rose now. You get along without me?ʼ

ʻOf course,ʼ said Mrs Weasley. ʻYou better look after Rose before she feels even more neglected. I donʼt want her having a groaning competition with the ghoul again.ʼ

Hermione quickly left the kitchen and walked through the passageway to the staircase. Familiar with the staircaseʼs eccentricities, Hermione hurried up to the fifth flight to a painfully bright orange door with two fat black Cs on it.

Hermione knocked.

There came no sound.

Hermione knocked again.

Nothing.

ʻRose?ʼ asked Hermione softly, trying to open the door. Up in the attic the ghoul started to bang on the pipes.

ʻRose?ʼ said Hermione loudly, ʻcan I come in?ʼ

The ghoul banged louder.

ʻRose, I open your door now,ʼ shouted Hermione over the noise, drawing her wand.

ʻGo away!ʼ Rose shouted back.

Hermione smiled to herself, tapping her wand against the door. The lock clicked.

ʻRose?ʼ said Hermione, gently pushing open the door.

As always she had to blink because of the orange overkill. Her daughter, apart from the ginger hair the body perfectly blending in with the orange bedspread, glared at her before she rolled to the side to face the window. Hermione carefully walked over the comics, miniature broomsticks, knitting needles and chess figures on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed next to Rose. Softly, she laid a hand on her shoulder.

ʻAre you all right?ʼ

ʻYouʼre stupid,ʼ mumbled Rose and shook her hand off, burying her face in the pillow.

ʻAre you still hungry?ʼ asked Hermione, needing to raise her voice to drown the increasingly loud ghoul. ʻDonʼt you want some pudding?ʼ

ʻGo away,ʼ grumbled Rose from the pillow.

ʻWhy are you angry with me?ʼ

ʻYou donʼt like me,ʼ sounded Roseʼs muted voice.

ʻI?ʼ asked Hermione. ʻDonʼt like you? What a strange creature would I be not to like my daughter.ʼ

ʻYou see? You donʼt even deny it!ʼ

ʻOf course I deny it. I love you more than any words in a human language could ever say. Thereʼs nothing I wouldnʼt do for you.ʼ

Rose - probably to look at her mother or from simple want of air - turned on her back and looked up at Hermione. ʻWhy didnʼt you want me to defend you then?ʼ she asked sulkily.

ʻBecause I didnʼt need defending,ʼ said Hermione, ʻthough of course I am very touched by your ardour for my cause. But we are at home where everybody is our friend. We shouldnʼt live in the past - especially when one is as young as you are. Youʼve got all the future of the world.ʼ

Rose looked up at her mother with a frown. ʻOur future is made of our past.ʼ

ʻThatʼs true,ʼ said Hermione. ʻBut our past is such a complex building, made of so many different elements and decisions, and chance has so much to say that it is the present we have primarily to worry about. Especially as that present will one day be the past and is therefore - following your logic - condemned to make a future. And that it will be a good future, that we can try to influence by what we do in the present - not in the past.ʼ

ʻBut Mum,ʼ said Rose, ʻwhen we have learnt from the past that someone is a mean person, we should remember this in the present.ʼ

ʻAnd yet, we should keep in mind that, though he was mean in the past, he doesnʼt automatically have to be mean in the present or future.ʼ

ʻBut Dad told me all about him,ʼ protested Rose, finally raising her voice too to get over the ghoulʼs noise. ʻHe said the... the... M-word to you.ʼ She whispered the last part of her sentence, her words only guessable by lip-reading.

ʻHe did so many, many years ago,ʼ said Hermione. ʻI canʼt judge a grown man by what he said when he was little older than you are.ʼ

ʻBut...ʼ said Rose, her voice still low though the ghoul did everything to be loud. She sat up and threw her arms around her mother to speak in her ear. ʻThere are rumours. I know from Dad. He sometimes reads them aloud in the paper. Well, Dad always treats it as a joke, but then... heʼs Dad. So I was thinking, what if itʼs true? And if it is, arenʼt you in grave danger? What would we do if something happened to you? I... Iʼm scared.ʼ

Hermione hugged her daughter and rocked her in her arms. ʻDonʼt be afraid,ʼ she murmured, with some regret deciding to leave the Malfoys unmentioned for the time being. ʻThereʼs nothing to be afraid of. Though your Dad does lack in seriousness, he doesnʼt lack in judgement. We are safe.ʼ

ʻYou really think so?ʼ

ʻReally, really.ʼ

* * *

 _A/N This is all concerning this story. Iʼve written more about Draco and Astoria and hope that Iʼll get to upload it all. I might also write some pieces concerning Scorpiusʼs childhood, Iʼ ve got a couple of ideas. I hope you liked this little addition. Many thanks for reading to all of you!_


End file.
